


Long Live the Half-Blood Prince

by soulofme



Series: sheith fairytale au's [2]
Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Alternate Universe - Snow White Fusion, Fairy Tale Elements, Huntsman Shiro (Voltron), M/M, Prince Keith (Voltron), Snow White Keith (Voltron)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-29
Updated: 2018-09-29
Packaged: 2019-07-20 09:49:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,069
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16134764
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/soulofme/pseuds/soulofme
Summary: “Your Majesty?” Shiro’s voice pitches with panic that he does not attempt to hide. It cannot be. King Zarkon would never ask for such a thing.“You must kill him,” Zarkon says, the words punctuated by a flash of lightning. The king’s face is briefly illuminated, glowing with the slow embers of budding jealousy and rage. “You must kill Prince Keith.”





	Long Live the Half-Blood Prince

**Author's Note:**

> So basically I’ve been dying to write another fairytale fic after I wrote that red riding hood fic I few months back. So here’s a Snow White AU. This was actually really fun so lowkey hit me up with any fairytale requests you guys have. 
> 
> Anyway thanks for clicking and hope you enjoy the fic :)

King Zarkon sits on his throne, black and twisted, with gargoyles resting upon his shoulders. His expression is covered by a carefully blank mask, hiding his true feelings from anyone who dares to look at him directly.

Takashi Shirogane kneels before his king, head bowed deeply in respect. Known as “Champion”, he is the most feared huntsman in the empire. No one dares to cross him, knowing that such an endeavor will lead to their untimely demise.

“Your Majesty,” he greets, eyes trained on the dark stone tiles beneath him. He can feel the coolness through his pants.

“Stand,” Zarkon commands.

Shiro obeys immediately, hands clasped behind him as he awaits his orders. The king swipes a hand through the air in front of him, bringing up a thick, purple haze. The clouds arrange themselves until a series of images flashes throughout the throne room.

Shiro’s brow crinkles as he watches Keith—the half-blood prince—flicker before his eyes. The prince is shown sleeping in his quarters, attending his daily lessons with his tutor, and sparring in the training room with his brother Lotor. Shiro’s eyes feel drawn to the prince’s features: skin as pale as snow, cheeks red and healthy with blood, hair dark as ebony.

“Your Majesty?” Shiro murmurs, tearing his eyes away from the pictures.

Zarkon dispels them with a flick of his wrist. Darkness falls on the throne room. A chill begins seeping down to Shiro’s bones, uneasiness making him shift slightly before the king.

“Who,” Zark asks, “is the strongest, the bravest, the most powerful of all?”

The question hangs ominously between them. Shiro nearly starts when a druid, one of the queen’s many creations, steps from the shadows behind the king’s throne. Its heavy robes drag along the floor until it comes to a rest beside the king.

“Why,” the druid starts, voice dripping with menace. “Prince Keith, of course!”

Thunder crackles above them.

“I presume you recognize why I have called you here,” Zarkon says, leaning forward, hands clutched tight on the arms of his throne.

“Your Majesty?” Shiro’s voice pitches with panic that he does not attempt to hide. It cannot be. King Zarkon would never ask for such a thing.

“You must kill him,” Zarkon says, the words punctuated by a flash of lightning. The king’s face is briefly illuminated, glowing with the slow embers of budding jealousy and rage. “You must kill Prince Keith.”

Beside him, the druid begins to cackle. Shiro grabs his wrist hard, feeling the metal of his prosthetic dig into his flesh. He must obey.

“Yes, your Majesty,” he says, dropping onto one knee. “Whatever you desire.”

* * *

“Where exactly are you taking me?”

Shiro looks over his shoulder. Prince Keith meets his gaze head on, eyes narrowed in displeasure. His hood is drawn above his head, shielding his face from the snow that falls heavily around them.

“Your father has requested that I escort you to the neighboring kingdom,” he says, twisting back around. “You are to make peace with the crown prince. He is displeased with your behavior at his coronation ceremony.”

“He is a pompous brat,” the prince insists. Shiro can practically imagine his eyes rolling skyward, as if to beg a higher being for mercy. “I am only treating him how I see fit.”

“That is your greatest flaw, your Highness,” Shiro replies. “His cooperation, and that of his kingdom’s, will ensure that peace is kept among us. It would not do well for you to ruin that.”

“No,” Keith mutters petulantly. “I suppose it would not.”

His horse jogs until it is level with Shiro’s, his hands gripping the reins loosely. This close, Shiro looks upon Keith's features. He is a combination of delicate and strong, his beauty captured both in the gentle slope of his nose and in the way he effortlessly wields the sword sheathed on his waist.

But he is a half-blood, a symbol of impurity. If Queen Haggar had her way, Keith would have never seen the light of day. The son of her husband's concubine would have been smothered in his sleep and that would have been the end of it.

But Zarkon decided the boy should live, for reasons no one understood. Even so, everyone knew that such a boy could never rule the kingdom. Such a boy could never surpass Lotor, the rightful heir of the throne.

After all, humans are not meant to rule. Not in this world.

That is why they have perished, sent off to prison camps and forced to work for superior beings. The only reason Shiro has been spared is because he had earned his place—and the king’s favor. He had been a prisoner, too, until he had been sent to fight in the arena. There, he had bested monsters who appeared to certainly outmatch him in strength.

But never will. Will is what gave way to determination, determination that the king sought to have for himself.

And so, he had been spared. Sent to work in the capital, where he resided in the castle among the royals and disposed of those who displeased the king. A huntsman.

A _murderer_.

Shiro had never expected that the king would wish his own son dead. 

He had known the prince since he was a boy. Keith had sought him out on every occasion, took comfort in him seeing as they were the only free humans for miles. But even more than their blood, Keith appeared to genuinely trust him. They grew close. Inseparable, even.

Perhaps that is why Zarkon has asked this of him. It must be a punishment, a reminder of sorts. Humans are not to be trusted. Just because Shiro had gotten lucky, it did not mean that the king would favor all of his kind.

“Takashi?” Keith prompts.

Shiro’s eyes fall shut at that. Keith is the only one who calls him his name, the name his mother had given him when he rested upon her breast. It is the only reminder of who he is most days, beneath the gleaming armor and blood that drips down the length of his blade.

“I am fine,” he insists. He looks behind them. The castle is far gone. It is time. “We should rest. We have a long journey before us.”

He brings his horse to a stop, getting off and securing the reins around a tree branch. Keith follows his lead before settling on the edge of the river beside them to drink.

Shiro reaches for the blade tucked away in its sheath. The prince is unaware of his presence, back turned to him, completely vulnerable. He stands behind Keith, staring into the clear water at their reflections.

Keith pauses, hands held inches away from his mouth. 

The knife glints in the mid-morning sun. The prince does not gasp or cry, but he does lower his hands until they rest on his knees. He lifts his chin defiantly, head held high even as Shiro kneels behind him.

The knife kisses his throat. Keith does not flinch.

“I will not beg for my life,” he murmurs, voice low and husky.

“I did not expect you would.”

“Father chose well,” Keith continues, twisting his head towards Shiro. Shiro presses the blade deeper into his skin, enough to shallowly cut, but Keith is not deterred. “He knew you are the most capable in the kingdom.”

“I am your friend,” Shiro says, unable to stop the sob that crawls up his throat.

“Yes,” Keith agrees. “And you are doing what you must.”

Shiro growls, shoving Keith to his back. The prince goes willingly. His arms rest askew beside him, his dark, intelligent eyes awaiting Shiro’s next move.

“Fight,” Shiro urges him, blade moving to press against Keith’s cheek. “ _Fight_!”

This is not Keith, Shiro decides. Keith, _his_ Keith, fights, fights until his bones ache and his muscles scream in agony, until the breath has to be squeezed painfully from his lungs. His Keith would not go so easily, give himself up without a second thought, yield beneath Shiro as if he always knew this day would come.

Nausea spikes in Shiro’s stomach.

“Father will not rest until I am gone. If you do not kill me, the druids will hunt me down. Whatever they do to me will be far worse than what you will.”

Keith reaches for Shiro’s wrist, pressing the blade into his skin until blood beads along the blade and trickles down his cheeks.

“I have expected this for many years,” Keith says. “Perhaps if I was stronger, and of sounder mind, I would fight. But I cannot fight you, Takashi. You are my brother. I love you.”

“Don’t,” Shiro begs, hanging his head. “Don’t say those words to me. I am nothing to you.”

“You are _everything_ ,” Keith promises.

And in a show of bravery that could only be attributed to the half-blood prince, he yanks Shiro down into a deep kiss. Shiro tastes the salt of his own tears, the tang of Keith’s fresh blood. He buries the fingers of his flesh hand into Keith’s dark hair, tangling them into the silky strands.

“Run,” Shiro urges him when they part. “Run, and never return.”

He looks into Keith’s eyes, presses a thumb against the gash on his cheek. It will scar, serve as a permanent reminder of what Shiro has done.

“They will hurt you,” Keith whispers, reaching for Shiro. “You know they will.”

“It is the price I must pay,” Shiro replies, sitting up.

His lips burn from where they had crashed against Keith’s, the feel of him beneath him permanently branded into his mind. He looks at his blade, red with the blood of his prince, and feels his stomach coil unpleasantly.

“Takashi.” Snow crunches beneath Keith’s knees as he positions himself before Shiro again, hand reaching for his, seeking out his warmth even though Shiro had attempted to take his life.

“Yes, your Highness?”

Keith’s gaze hardens momentarily, though the expression is quickly replaced by something so soft, so understanding, something that Shiro knows he is undeserving of.

“I meant what I said. _I love you_.”

Shiro turns his face away, as if to block the words.

“Go,” he says, voice hoarse.

Keith’s hand slips out of his. Shiro listens to his departing footsteps and the stop of his horse's hooves against the snow-covered ground. Shiro turns, hoping to catch one last glance, but Keith is gone.

Gone, but safe.

He brings himself to his feet, snow crusted on the knees of his pants. He treks through the woods until he catches a boar, one that he kills and savagely rips the heart from. The organ pulses in his hand long after he has returned to the castle and presented it to his king.

“The blade,” Shiro begins, handing it to Zarkon, “and the heart of the half-blood prince.”

Zarkon directs a druid to receive the bundle. The boar’s heart sits in its palm, dark and still shiny with blood.

“Your Majesty!” The druid crows, holding the heart high in the air. “This is not the heart of the half-blood prince, but the heart of a boar!”

“Traitor!” Zarkon roars. “You dare defy me?”

“I will die in the prince’s place,” Shiro says, falling to his knees. “If you must take a life, let it be mine.”

Zarkon growls, sweeping his arm towards the shadows. More druids begin to emerge, circling until Shiro is surrounded by them. Smiles are etched onto their faces, their sharp teeth glinting from the light emanating from the torches lined along the walls.

“Your Majesty?” the one with the heart prompts, head tilted to the side.

Zarkon stands, energy crackling around him in vicious purple bolts. He steps down from his throne, pausing briefly beside Shiro.

Shiro meets his eyes, hands behind his back, chin high. He does not let his fear show on his face, even as his heart hammers in his chest.

Zarkon sneers, twisting away from his huntsman.

“Kill him.”

As the druids descend upon him, their shrill cackles echoing off the walls, Shiro finds himself able to only think of Keith.

Keith, who will be safe, Shiro knows. Safe, because he is a fighter. _Shiro’s_ fighter.

“Any last words, Champion?” a druid asks, the one who squeezes the boar’s heart with a wicked grin.

Shiro takes one last, deep breath.

“Long live the half-blood prince.”


End file.
